


My Heart Has Thorns So Please Don't Hold It

by i_am_a_museum



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Protective Sokka (Avatar), Protective Toph Beifong, Toph Beifong & Zuko Friendship, Toph Beifong Being Awesome, Ursa (avatar) is also a bad parent, Zuko (Avatar) Angst, Zuko (Avatar) Deserves Nice Things, Zuko (Avatar) Has Issues, Zuko (Avatar) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Zuko (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Zuko (Avatar) Redemption, Zuko (Avatar) is Bad at Feelings, Zuko (Avatar) is an Idiot, Zuko (Avatar) whump, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, Zuko's Scar (Avatar)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:42:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29433324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_a_museum/pseuds/i_am_a_museum
Summary: He made him hollow you see. Empty inside, with button eyes and a stitched up smile. And when he’s had enough, he knows where he’ll go. He’ll be unstitched and pulled apart limb by limb. So that he can be made anew into whatever needs doing next. He can be as strong, and as beautiful and as fierce as he needs him to be. After all, he is his father's loyal son.So even as he trips down stairs and falls out of trees. He assures that father loves him.He HAS to. He whispers late at night in his dreams and his body burns.- an au where Zuko covers for Ozai again and again not realising that Toph can hear his heart.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Toph Beifong & Zuko
Comments: 20
Kudos: 158





	1. These Grey Walls That I Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 is now up! Please feel free to leave constructive criticism in the comment below, I have a lot to learn! For now, I've posted a short-ish chapter but future updates will average 2-5k words per chapter. I am aiming to post a new chapter every month so stay tuned! Enjoy :)

The royal palace has always been known as the iron fortress. Its architecture, strong and unyielding yet strangely elegant at the same time. The hints of metallic silver at every corner, be it a sword display or armoury and the pearl white walls somehow melded together to create this extraordinarily complementary effect on each other. At least that's what all the newspapers and fire nation books say. Much like how yin and yang would look like if ever they were to be a building, they write.

Except Zuko has never seen this so-called artistic palace they keep droning on about. He’s only ever wandered in this murky grey fortress they call his home. The described marble-like elegance nowhere to be seen. All just steel bars, cold concrete floors and a pretty garden that no one visits anymore, to make up for the rest of the boring background. 

Although Zuko does admit that being benders AND royalty means that the crimson red of fire temporarily does add a splash of ‘yes people do indeed live here despite the lack of visual stimulation’. 

He can't decide the real reason why everyone here outfits in vibrant reds and golds, whether it's simply to be as patriotic as possible or if it's the fear that their eyes will die from the lack of anything worth looking at around here. He supposes their gaudy attire has to make up for the bland environment.

He roams around absentmindedly on the stony pavement, his late orders from father sinking in. When the warm air brushes past his face. The sweet fragrance of white irises blooming by the palace garden, his mother had once nurtured wafts through. He must’ve subconsciously just walked here in his daze.

_ To mother and his garden. _

He hadn’t thought of her in so long. And he vaguely recalls hot summers sitting in this meadowy place, her flowery powdered scent and her silky long dark hair that he’d braid into tiny waterfalls. Waterfalls that he doubts he could pull off now that his once small nimble fingers have grown rough and shaky. The tremors come and go as they please.

Well, not that anyone had noticed. There's a reason why he always clenches them. Weakness is not to be found in any fire nation boy, especially not in one that is of royal blood.

Anyway, it's not as if he had anyone lining up to get their hair braided. And it wasn’t like Azula cared much about anything unless it had some sort of benefit, the show-off. And Zuko could bet that on her list of priorities, whether her hair was braided or not was most definitely not high on it. It'd be as trivial as, well...him. She is a prodigy after all. 

Nevertheless, this had been his secret hideout years ago. Where he’d run to when things got too much.

Mother always said that cowardice in a man was unbecoming and unhonourable especially as a prince but back then Zuko's priorities had always been muddled up. Azula right at the top (she had only been a harmless baby once upon a time), then mother (with her irises and pretty hair), the turtleducks next, then Father and then everything else. 

He had a nasty habit of being oblivious and stupidly thick as a child so he should've realised much earlier. That really it should have been the other way around, minus everything else. Especially since it was most often after he had angered father or had a particularly rough training session or lecture that he’d come here, tail between his legs sniffling.

He remembers creeping past the guards using Azula to distract them, (she’d always been a show-off ever since she was little) and then he’d sprint as fast as his little legs would take him. Zig-zagging across corridors and stairs, bounding and scaling to and fro trees until he reached someplace empty. It's how he found the garden in the first place.

On the edge of the estate, where the royal palace’s smooth stone footpath became more jagged and mossy. It was a forgotten little corner of the fortress, so out of place in this jaded palace, it rotted away like it didn't exist at all. It made sense that no gardeners were ever appointed considering no earth benders were permitted inside after his great grandfather, Sozin became Fire Lord. 

So it was no wonder the place was a wreck. Shrubs overgrown and weeds sprouting everywhere. Zuko recalls wandering around only to find that in the middle of the abandoned plot, was a lake where all of the turleducks would come to live later on, unusually clear and picturesque compared to the rest of the neglected garden.

As winter nears, Zuko remembers how he asks ( _ begs _ ) his mother for a birthday present entailing that they take on a secret project. Which she accepts because she's honourable and so keeps all her promises.

And he does too as he finally perfects the advanced firebending techniques that even Lu Ten can’t do yet. Not that it matters, Azula is and has always been far ahead of him in any and all aspects so he doesn't bother comparing anymore. He sprints towards the edge of the estate, his arms are bandaged and bloody and mother doesn’t ask ( _ care _ ). Not that it hurts that much anyway, he’s not that  _ weak _ .

They transform the messy greenery into a beautiful white meadow and by they, he means mother had smuggled an earth bender who had once gardened to help them. They place pearly irises everywhere because mother said she liked how pure they look. She even buys two turtleducks.

“To liven up the place!” she chuckles, watching Zuko awe at how petite and cute they are. Their little hands and feet waddling about.

( _ and Zuko wonders what he will have to do to keep them because mother keeps her promises so he should too. _ )

And he thinks of this white garden of theirs, with all its flowers, its turtleducks and silver irises, sandstone and mossy stepping stones. It is mine and only  _ mine _ . And he recalls, that is when it truly became his favourite spot in the whole of this grey castle they called his home.

Nostalgic with memories he thought he had buried with his mother. He looks back to when he’d be so high on adrenaline that he’d bump into his her accidentally (on purpose), mid-run into the garden which she’d then sometimes reply to with an embrace as she’d catch him from falling. But most times, she’d just be off guard to notice and would let him fall knees first to the floor. 

He realises that sandstone (a specially hardened soil used as garden floors from the Earth Kingdom) is actually quite hard. He's got the scars to prove it. 

But he keeps running into her anyway since he's not Azula, who only needs telling once to stop doing something. He’s annoyingly stubborn like that. It’s probably why he’s always struggled to learn his lessons properly.

_ His skin blisters. And his hands burn burned burns. And he wonders why the other kids don’t have these lessons either. Mother tells him it’s because they’re not as special or as loved as he is. And he believes her because mother is as honourable and kind as they come. _

After meeting, they would sit together. He’d whine to her about father or his teachers or whatever had been on his mind, and she’d listen silently until the end. Nagging at him afterwards, like the mother she was.

“You know, your father only does this because he loves you so much Zuko." She’d sigh softly. He’d always hated making mother upset. He remembers how she’d tense her shoulders and how the heat would radiate off of her.

“Yes mother, I know. I love father too.” And only then would she relax.

She’d giggle and joke, “Zuko, I thought you loved me more!”

And they would soak in the sun, birds chittering, his mother laughing at his silly childish jokes until he finally finished her braids. 

As he reached the end of the garden, the scent of flowers wilted, stifled by the distinct smell of ash and burning wood. He pauses at the edge of the stone path.

Well, what’s the use in indulging in past sentiments now he scolds himself.

Swiftly turning back towards the smooth grey concrete, he retreats from the mossy stepping stones and briskly walks. Until he eventually arrives at his room. The new orders dwelling heavily on his mind. They are Fire Lord Ozai’s explicit orders. And so to carry them perfectly out is only natural, it is his duty as his son.

_ The 41st division. The 41st division. The 41st division. _

Time does not stand still, especially not inside these grey walls. Especially not if you are Ozai. And especially not if you are his loyal son.

He prepares to carry out his orders. Parchment paper and typewriter assembled and ready. He begins to type his report on the 41st division, ready for Azula to make use of.

_ This is a war Zuko. There is no time nor place for weakness here. You shall do well to learn that my child. _

And he knows that before he is a fire nation, before he is the Crown Prince Zuko. Even before he is his fathers' son, he is his mothers' child. And she has no child less than perfect.

So he clenches and unclenches his trembling hands and gets to work. _And his body burns._


	2. To Places We Retreat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are places people hide. In broad daylight or the dead of night.  
> Behind doors, underneath beds, hidden in wardrobes, inside their heads.  
> They hide and retreat. Pray and repeat.  
> Until somebody shows that there is no need to hide in those places. 
> 
> (only except there is).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol finally posted and its almost been a month oops. SO...I definitely underestimated the effort and organisational skills required to multitask life and this new hobby so now that I've got the general gist I do have a more organised plan. 
> 
> The goal is at a minimum 1 chapter and if I feel especially creative/motivated, 2 chapters a month (but pls don't @ me if I don't). 
> 
> Also, I've created my own first original character, don't hate him pls. I've tried to introduce him for now and he will be part of the main cast.
> 
> Anyway as always lemme know if there's stuff I can improve on and enjoy :)
> 
> AND FEEL FREE TO LEAVE KUDOS TOO <3 ;)

* * *

There is an echo that haunts Zuko. So so many of them. They follow him like Agni does Tui. And like sirens, they lure him to sleep, to daydreams that aren’t quite right. 

And of course, Zuko knows how important official work is. He does. But he keeps finding himself slipping back to...well, he’s not quite sure. He’s supposed to be completing his task at hand, not having some sort of existential crisis. 

He knows he desperately needs to rest as the ticking sound of his fingers pushing down on the keys on the typewriter begins to sound like a lullaby he vaguely recalls.

_ tick tick tick  _

* * *

The grey walls seemed to stretch on forever and ever, with no ceiling in sight. He’d always found the throne room somewhat distasteful. Bitter and unnerving. Not the type where even ghosts would linger, he imagines. 

All of the windows in the room had been boarded up. Reinforced with a steel metal mix to prevent snipers from shooting in and break-ins. And although it was functional, it meant the room was in a constant state of darkness. It was like the whole place was disconnected from the spirit world. Cold. Devoid. Empty. Stupidly spacious so that every word would echo and vibrate across the walls. 

As if Fathers booming voice doesn’t already have that tone that demands respect and nothing less, he also has his own personal megaphone speaker to go with it. 

“Zuko,” Ozai acknowledges, voice low and dangerous. The air of absolute authority washes over the entire room, in tidal waves. And like all waves, they crash, submerge everything in sight, and engulf Zuko. He tenses ever so slightly and lowers his head downwards in submission, a conditioned and very telling reflex. Respect.

The candle lights hanging on the throne room walls flicker instantly. They burn an orange and a hue of gold casts over. At Ozai’s call, Zuko kneels automatically, if not a little bit slow from his aching legs. The pain, albeit dull but there all the same.

“Yes Fire Lord Ozai,” he replies, forcing his voice steady. Glad that his gold-embroidered sleeves cover his trembling hands. He couldn't afford any more mishaps. Forget Uncle Iroh being disappointed if he knew. Mother would be turning in her grave. Such a crude display of nervousness (weakness) is embarrassing. 

In the silence, shadows dance mockingly. Unaware of the tension that floods every crevice and nook of the room. One slip up and...no there won’t be one today if he just stays calm. Stay calm, he thinks, stay bloody calm.

Ozai clears his throat as he walks back and forth between the throne and the board that hangs unassumingly at the side of the room. A black and white map hidden behind the red curtain that accents this, yet again, grey stone palace. The contents blended into the cracks of the grey stone wall.

_ tap tap tap _

Echoes his footsteps and Zuko waits for the ball to drop. Was it his etiquette? Surely not, it's been years since his last lesson. Perhaps it's about the war? But Zuko swears it seems stable enough. Sure, there have been no tactical assaults on our end. But neither was there any on anyone else's. It’s not as if we’re losing. In fact, Zuko would even say that they're close to winning. What with their colony expansion and military numbers. Well, whatever it was. It was clearly not that important, since it had been him who had been called instead of Azula.

The taps come to a stop and Father stands in front of the curtain (board). Ah, so it is about the war then.

Ozai then turns to face Zuko.

“As Crown Prince of this esteemed Fire Nation, it is only natural that I expect you to be better than the average man.” The flicker of red stills in agreement. The walls stretch on, the shadows tower. Dancing to the drums of Zuko’s heartbeat. Ozai assesses and Zuko trembles ever so quietly.

“Do. Not. Fail. Zuko.” The Fire Lord warns. Finally, the shadows cease their useless dancing and the air falls stagnant. This order, whatever it was must be important enough to give it to a royal to ensure secrecy, but not so important since he gave it to the lesser royal.

Ozai continues, “Compile a list of all newly recruited platoons near the Earth Kingdom. Make special note of the 41st division. Have it ready for Azula in 2 days.” He orders. He stares expectantly. The Fire Lord gestures for Zuko to stand, ready to be dismissed now that he has issued his orders. Zuko obeys.

“Yes, Father. I will not fail you.” And his knees almost give out. Internally cringing, he knows he'll have to ask Cyra for some painkillers later. 

_ Do not be such an open book, Zuko. The people that read you, may not like it. It was Father himself that taught him that. _

He moves off the dingy marbled stone ever so gracefully and awaits his dismissal. Face stoic and devoid, sophisticated like a true royal. 

On the outside at least. Inside, he feels almost giddy. A pride of sorts bubbles briefly, smug that not even the king, the emperor, the Fire Lord can critique his expertly masked expression. And sure, Father may know of his physical state (him being the one who made it that way for all his  _ impertinence _ ), but at least he does not show it. 

At the very least he shows Father he is worth the title of Crown Prince. Babe of Ursa and Ozai. Their most learned son.

He stands firm and tall, ever so royal and regal. His legs straight and his arms crossed behind his back. No one would think he was slightly compromised. As if he does not have crimson welts on the back of his legs. Like his knees are not bloody and bruised.

“That is all. You are dismissed.” The shadows dissipate without an encore. The golden curtains close as the candlelights dull and all is once more grey.

The air vibrates to the Fire Lords final orders. And Zuko bows. A perfect 90 degree. How gleeful his past instructors would be to see him now, he thinks. As he turns away and the guards escort him out.

The heavy doors close shut. And he walks and he walks and he walks until he cannot  _ feel _ .

* * *

Zuko finds all there is to be found on the 41st division. Names, dates, ages, backgrounds, educations. Hell, he’d even stumbled upon the dating profile of one who had apparently had a fling with the esteemed actress Joyli before she settled down back in ‘64. 

He’s read and reported their strengths and weaknesses as well as their potential numbers. And he has to admit, there are a lot of weaknesses even for a colony platoon. The platoon mostly consists of commoners and the odd illegitimate offsprings of some country nobles. Plus he’s pretty sure at least a good third of these recruits are underage. Evident by their ‘clean shaven’ face and lack of 8 o’clock shadow an 18-year-old would normally have. But then again, recalling Uncle Iroh's words, puberty is different for each man. 

God, how he wishes to erase and burn to ash the memory of _the_ _talk_ Iroh had given him a couple of winters ago. How on earth had Uncle even got those _tapes_. He shudders, just the thought of it sending unwanted shivers down his spine.

And like a smooth passage, his thoughts ebb from Iroh's safe sex talk and dubious “helpful videos” to his aching body. From one pain to another. Ugh, why couldn't it have been one painful memory to one happy Zuko with no worries at all?

It was his legs that hurt the most. They throbbed like nobody’s business. Much like a timed reminder that he should probably visit the physician at some point because they probably should not feel like they have their own heartbeat. 

Anyway, just as Zuko begins concluding his report, he hears a tapping noise from beyond his closed door. More distinctly morphing into clickity clacking sounds. 

Coming closer and closer and closer. 

There's only one clickity-clack sound he knows, and he’s pretty sure Azula is on the way. For a reason, he literally cannot rack his brains enough to find out. There was no royal meeting coming up, no big event, not even their birthdays (not that they celebrated it much now anyway, they’re in the middle of a war). And sure they were siblings but they’d very much grown apart after mother, actually no...maybe even before that. It’d be more accurate to describe one another as acquaintances with history and shared DNA. 

Sure he had met with Father but how would she even know about that. Last he’d heard, she’d been out with Mai and their group at a training fair and it’d barely even been a day since.

_ clickity clack clack clack _

The sound getting louder and louder and louder until it stops right in front of his door.

Well, he supposes...those stupidly echoey walls are at least good for something. A heads-up of Azula is a very kind mercy. 

And just as he thinks that the door swings open. And in she steps, ever so elegantly, the Fire Nation's very own Princess Prodigy, Azula. Dressed in garbs made only with fine silk and brilliant red rubies, all efficiently cut too. Hidden pockets and weapon holders in between each fold, he guesses. 

She wears that trademark smirk of hers and smiles showing her pearly white shark teeth.

“Azula.” he curtly states, or in their siblingish - hello and to what do I owe the pleasure.

To which she replies, “Hello, Brother.” Nice and short. Otherwise meaning - let's talk Family. Father in particular. 

“I’m finishing up a report so make it quick Azula.” He folds his arms and mentally braces himself for whatever conversation they're about to have.

Azula had come to assess Zuko. She’d found that on average, Ozai usually had a negative impact on Zuko’s physical, mental and emotional states. Interestingly, post-Ozai Zuko would fluctuate between a somewhat prideful and arrogant man to an insecure anxiety wretched child. It was very telling as children when Zuko had come in contact with Father. He would be so detached and yet so frantic too. 

She thought it was funny how his face would remain impassive but if you looked closer, the sleeves of his shirt would shake and flutter like a leaf on a windy day. His trembling hands were such a contradiction to his face and voice. It was like he was a broken mime. 

So here she is yet again. Striding down the hallway, counting her steps from the front of the building till she reached Zuko’s door. 

261.

She’s sure that she's left adequate time for him to steel himself for her arrival. 

And so with her assessment in mind, she turns that handle and opens it to an expectant and bored-looking Zuko.

“Azula.” He begins. Interestingly, his sleeves don’t seem to flutter much. 

Mmmn. How very intriguing indeed. She smiles wide. 

“Hello, Brother.” Her eyes sparkle. How fun. 

* * *

Zuko was sure he was almost done by now. The sun had already begun to set. Agni glowing in vibrant shades of red and orange. 

For the past half hour, he had been stuck trying to finish one report. But because of his inconvenient, ill-timed, stupid tremors. He was struggling. Totally not triggered by Azula’s weird conversation. Very much nothing to do with his current predicament at all. Unrelated. Zero. Absolute zilch connection whatsoever. Azula doesn't affect him in any slight way. 

She’s a liar, she always has been, and considering people rarely change, she probably always will be. Mother had always done well to warn him of her...fibbing.

“Father has informed me that you have some orders.” Azula had stated. All mysterious like. She’d been analysing him from the moment she’d swung the door open. With her beady little hawk eyes and her neutral body language, stiff relaxed face, and her smooth voice sounding all monotoned. She was a walking talking robot. How exactly was Zuko supposed to know what she was thinking? 

So he had replied in a forced bored tone, “Yes, he did.” Leaving the full extent vague. Fishing to see how much she knew. What did Father tell her for her to come all this way? Had Father mentioned a time frame? Just how important is this report of his? He was told two days but what about her? What exactly did Azula know about the war?

"I’m sure he told you that you’d be receiving the report all in due time?" 

Azula stared into his eyes and he buried the flinch or fidget or falter he's sure he would have had shown had he been anybody else. 

She'd always had a sharp gaze, even as a child. And he's always hated eye contact ever since he was a child too. It’d make him all nervous and fidgety and uncomfortable. Not much had changed between those two only except now he doesn’t show it at all. Not that much anyway. 

“I did. But since it looks like you’ve almost finished, so just pass it along to me at your earliest convenience.” She had replied. Not giving anything up. 

He nods and they continue their stare off in awkward silence. Until what feels like forever finally comes to an abrupt stop. As she shoots him that signature smirk of hers, swivels around and struts off. Not even bothering to close the door after herself. How typical of her. Must’ve finished her little analysis of me and got bored, he supposes.

But deep down Zuko knows Azula very rarely gets bored when it comes to things about Father or him. So he must have just given something away. 

Well, too tired and in pain to care any further, Zuko finally decides to pay Cyra a much-needed visit. 

Plus pretending like his whole body did not ache was getting old and his self-preservation skills screamed that it was dumb since he was alone now. Yet here he was again being all cool and collected. When really, he hurt. His legs especially so. They felt heavy and uncomfortable like something was wriggling about in the marrow of his bones, and without sounding too graphic or gory, it felt very much like parasites. He knows it’s impossible what with modern medicine and agriculture, but the feeling was still there.

So with the research stapled together and filed. He finally wrapped up his report. 

Painstakingly he got up from his chair, tucked it in and began changing into his more comfortable garments. 

Cyra would hate him for arriving so late into the night. 

* * *

Zuko creeps into the slightly lighter grey room. There was a sterile silence here. And he had just about had enough of being uncomfortable.

“Cyra you old crone!” He whisper-yells as he scans the empty-looking room.

Silence.

Zuko waits at the doorway. Leaning against the cold stone frame, for Cyra to magically appear, as he’s always done. Either from the walk-in cupboards at the back (where he also keeps his stash of fire noodle crisps), the side room, also known as Frankenstein’s lab (where he unleashes his inner psycho science obsessed self) or from the basement down below (where he’s managed to fit in a TV of his own). He places his bets on the tv room.

His suspicions are confirmed, as Cyra himself emerges from the hole that is the basement entrance. Dishevelled hair, check. Whitecoat with flecks of what he ate earlier, check. 

“I am not an old crone, thanks.” Constant morning voice that's slightly cracked and deep, also check.

Zuko moves towards the patient bed and sits whilst Cyra collects himself.

“So, what is it today? Bloody cut from tripping? Busted ankle from training? Or did you tumble down some stairs this time?” Cyra sighs. Now looking like a real doctor. His hair tied into a sleek low bun, a new coat on and white gloves on each hand. 

Zuko looks at him, voice steady and face untelling. 

“Well, if you really need to know. I might’ve overestimated a tree.” 

_ A beat.  _

“...what?” 

Zuko buries the falter and starts again. 

“...I said. I might have...overestimated a tree. I was climbing it for nature training but I sort of slipped and got whiplash from all the branches below.” He adds pauses and omissions in all the right places. Convincing himself and Cyra, he hopes.

“Just...just show me for god’s sake Zuko.”

And Zuko  _ does _ . It's the only time he'll lay himself bare. He rolls up the soft cotton Pjs he had changed into before coming here. It’s stretchable fabric perfect for doctors visits. He rolls all the way up to his mid-thigh and rolls down his socks to reveal his bare legs. And waits for Cyra to start. 

Zuko’s aware that it isn't a  _ pretty  _ sight. The back of his legs were all bruised up. With split lines of dark crimson and red sitting in the skin. His body was a mess and the ones that he had revealed were enough to fill a whole colour palette. He was a myriad of colours; harsh blacks and splashes of blues, hues of purple and hints of pink. Patterns of yellow peek through underneath, in old places (in places, they  _ never _ should have been). Unnervingly smooth lines parallel and criss-cross each other. Overlapping in gruesome red. If he were an artist he'd have scrapped the whole canvas.

Cyra  _ tries _ to breathe. There's a growing lump in his throat and his heart feels all too heavy. He starts to detach and watch from a muffled space. Somewhere he always ends up retreating, whenever Zuko visits. His hands do not shake, they  _ never _ do. His lungs work in auto. Breathe in. Breathe out.

In.

_ Out _ .

In

_ Out _

_ tick tock tick tock _

_ Like clockwork _

_ A cog that turns  _

_ and turns  _

_ and turns _

He questions, “And you got these from...a branch did you?”

Clattering and tapping in the background. He’s assembled the bandages, gauze and antiseptic onto the table somehow. 

“Yup.” Zuko replies while eying the antiseptic distastefully, “You should see the other guy though.” He laughs lightheartedly. 

Cyra laughs too (but he doesn’t  _ feel _ real).

“Zuko...don’t tell me you burnt the tree down...you did, didn't you?” And Cyra stands between the borders. What is he doing? Where is he going?

_ somewhere clogs turn and they turn and they turn. like clockwork  _

Zuko shrugs implying that he had indeed burned down a tree. And he meant it. And Cyra knew he did. Because they both knew fact-checking was useless with Zuko. Zuko was not a liar. He was a self-proclaimed narrator, so he didn't lie. He just recounted the important details of the story. Burnt trees weren’t rare, not in the royal palace of the Fire Nation. And Zuko thinks technically the tree did play a part because the whip is made of oak. 

So technically he hadn’t lied. And he  _ had _ burnt a tree down the other week. He  _ had _ also fallen and tripped at one point too. And technically, an oak tree “branch”  _ had _ given him whiplash. And it  _ had _ been part of training. So he may have exaggerated some parts and omitted other parts a little bit, but who doesn’t. That’s the art of storytelling and recounting well. He's telling the truth.

“I can tell you’ve had them for more than a couple of days Zuko,” Cyra says clinically. His hand do not shake. Zuko thinks he looks a little too muted for his liking. He worries. He hates it when Cyra gets like this.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He grounds out, his voice in neutral gear. Wincing as Cyra dabs some more antiseptic onto the back of his legs. It burns pretty bad. But at least he still had his legs. He recalls one of the recruits being an amputee. Apparently, he had his left leg (well everything from his knees down) cut off as a kid because of some type of car accident. He has a prosthetic now. 

Cyra continues, “These are pretty bad though. Zuko. You have to come to me immediately if you’ve hurt something, okay? I can only treat and heal so much. I’m a doctor, not a necromancer.”

Zuko gulps a little guiltily at that. He hadn’t meant to come late but one thing happened after another. And he knew how stressed out Cyra could get. So really he should have done better. Tried harder. He knows.

He hadn't forgotten when he was 9 yrs old. He had come running to Cyra who had only been an assistant at the time, his teeth shattered (good thing they were only his baby teeth), a broken nose and a bloody face. He’d fainted on the spot.

The poor guy had thought he was a demon because of all the blood. And although Cyra had profusely apologised at the time, it had never left Zuko’s conscience. He didn't miss how Cyra had worn hats for 2 months straight after the incident. He had cut his scalp from where he hit his head because Zuko had caused him to faint. But what had concerned Zuko even more so was that afterwards, Cyra had never quite treated him the same. Sometimes after an accident, Cyra would act weird. He would daydream more often and walk into walls absentmindedly. Sometimes he’d find Cyra sitting in silence in the basement staring at the grey walls and he’d look  _ so _ scared. It’d felt like he’d turned Cyra loony. (Like he did mother).

So Zuko quickly says reassuringly, “I’m sorry Cyra. I was going to come sooner but things just got on top of me. Next time I promise I’ll come sooner. I promise so can you just look at me please.” He hopes with this, Cyra doesn’t worry too much. And Cyra comes back from where he had hidden. Borderlines erased like they were never there. He's back in the light grey room with the dingy marble floor. Because not once has Zuko ever broken one. 

It isn't long before Zuko fulfils that promise. And Cyra  _ wishes _ he had never left. 


End file.
